


The Art of Tolerating

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Belly Rubs, Community: hc_bingo, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Id Fic, Iddy Iddy Bang Bang 2019, Loneliness, M/M, Nausea, Sickfic, Stomach Ache, Touch-Starved, Vomiting, slight belly kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-19 18:10:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20661539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: "I suspect it says something truly unflattering about our lives that we are better equipped to handle sepsis than the stomach flu."Harold gets sick. John lends a helping hand.





	The Art of Tolerating

**Author's Note:**

> So this is kind of none of the things I signed up to write for Iddy Iddy Bang Bang, but since it was lurking in my WIP folder and way bigger than it should be, I knew from the beginning that it could possibly become my IIBB fic anyway. It started its life as a fill for the "nausea" square on my HC Bingo card, and it either evolved or devolved from there—I'm not sure which.
> 
> Contains mentions of Harold/Grace and unrequited Harold/Nathan
> 
> Warnings: Vomiting (non-graphic), nausea, stomach cramps, a bloated and gurgling belly, and mentions of various other digestive issues that prim and proper Harold Finch would rather not think about. (Sorry, Harold. Maybe I'll do something nice to your belly one of these days.) Also some body image issues and Harold having a bit of a fear of vomiting.

Harold dismisses the queasiness at first.

Waking with an upset stomach is nothing new. Neither is fatigue. Far more often than he'd like, he rises in the morning with every cell crying for him to return to his bed and his insides ready to rebel at the slightest offense. Whether breakfast and a cup of tea will calm anything down or perk him up depends on the whims of his cantankerous and battered body. Most of the time, they solve little, but prevent worse.

Today is particularly bad. The slice of dry, plain toast he chokes down sits in his churning stomach like a boulder, warning him not to risk eating anything else. For the first time in a while, he has to lie back down after his shower, feeling woozy and weak. _Just for a moment,_ he orders himself, resting his hands upon his damp, bare middle. Just until his stomach settles.

His insides churn beneath his palms. His belly seems larger than normal, drum taut beneath its usual softness, and unpleasantly full despite his meager breakfast—though that could be his imagination. There's a dull, wavering ache stalking through his abdomen like a menacing shadow in his peripheral vision, threatening, or perhaps promising, to turn into something worse. His body sinks into the mattress and pillows, weighted down by malaise and his gut, heavy as lead. A chill fills his flesh despite the warmth of the sun-soaked bedroom and the atypical heat of his skin. The pieces slot together.

"I'm getting sick, aren't I?" he says aloud, Bear his only audience. His secretary at Universal Heritage warned him that a stomach virus was making the rounds, but he'd hoped that visiting so rarely would spare him. Apparently not. "How _wonderful_."

An illness is the last thing he needs, in a lengthy string of _last things he needs_. And while he might be allowed a sick day at most of his cover jobs, the numbers never stop coming, and there is no one to take his place at the computers.

There are no sick days for Harold Finch.

Worst of all, his spine and hip feel fine—or as close to fine as they ever are, throwing only their most obligatory protests toward their continued existence at him. This likely would have qualified as a rare _very_ good day, if the Yablonski number wrapped up without trouble and no others came in. He could have spent it doing things he actually wanted to do. Instead, he's likely going to be spending it lying in his bed or huddled in the restroom, trying in vain to appease his ornery old belly.

Harold heaves a sigh and forces himself out of bed, his bones creaking and popping, his entire body resisting the movement.

He clothes himself in maximum comfort—no belt that might dig into a tender belly, and, though he would like to conceal the bloating, no vest restricting his hands' access to it. Nothing he would hate to lose, either. A drab, tan suit, once belonging to the cover he fired from IFT, is his chosen victim. It doesn't matter if he dresses well anyway. The man staring back at him in the mirror looks ghastly, pale yet flushed, his too bright eyes surrounded by dark circles. He could wear his best suit today, and it wouldn't help a damn bit. So he picks his least favorite. If he vomits on it, good riddance.

He'd still rather not vomit on it.

By the time he arrives at the Library, he is undeniably ill—aching all over, running hot and cold, his belly outright hurting. Getting to sink into his chair after the laborious trip up the stairs—a substantial mistake, he realized when he was even more nauseated and far too late to change his course—is a relief. As is the empty quiet of the Library. With John in the field and Shaw's intervention in the case deemed unnecessary, he has the privacy to compose himself. He takes advantage, catching his breath before going to establish a connection with John.

He's greeted with a drawn-out, exaggerated, "Good morning, Finch," full of the sort of cheer he has no energy to feign himself. "Sleep well?"

A knot of tension unwinds in Harold's chest at the sound of John's voice. John is safe, and seemingly in a good mood despite his late night. These days, Harold hates going home while any of his team is working a number, especially John. It used to be slightly easier, back when he often saw John as a necessary nuisance. Now that John is an essential and cherished partner in this endeavor, however, it is far more difficult.

But he'd had little choice this time. He'd been inexplicably _exhausted_ yesterday, weak and drained of all energy by the time night rolled around. And the Library bed is hell on his back. John told him to go, that he could keep an eye out for Mrs. Yablonski's grandson on his own. Against his better judgment, Harold listened.

Now, with his belly groaning and churning, that exhaustion is no longer inexplicable. Goodness, his belly hurts. And he is going to throw up very soon.

When John asks, "You okay, Harold?" Harold realizes he didn't reply.

"Don't worry about me, Mr. Reese," he admonishes, even as he hunches over with fatigue, one hand propping up his heavy head on the computer table, the other kneading his middle. He presses hard against the cramps, as firmly as the bloating allows, hoping something will shift and offer relief. "Mrs. Yablonski is the one whose life is in danger, not me."

"Mrs. Yablonski is still sound asleep," John says. "She's fine." _You're not_ goes unspoken—though not unheard. But John doesn't pry, yet. Shaw might have, some of the physician in her slipping out by supposed accident, but not John. John is used to keeping mum when Harold is hurting.

But Harold is usually good at concealing the typical hurts. He's grown as accustomed as one can to the harsh pains in his spine and his hip, the ever-present and familiar discomfort of his old wounds, and has figured out the best ways to hide them. This is new. New and unpleasant and, he thinks, as acid and bile rise from his heaving stomach and he clamps his mouth firmly shut, utterly _disgusting_.

Swallowing the sour-bitter warning down with a strained and stifled moan, Harold curses in his head. He doesn't want to throw up. He's not going to throw up. He's _not_, goddammit, he's not. This is his body, and he is the one in charge of it.

Oh, he almost laughs at that thought as soon as it occurs to him. Were it only true.

"Harold?"

Harold regains control of his stomach, and he releases a series of slow, cautious breaths. He has the strongest urge to whimper, to curl up in a corner somewhere, back and fracturing dignity be damned. He does neither. A whispered, "Oh," slips out as he strokes his upper belly. He hopes John didn't hear him speak. He hopes he did. "Oh, I don't feel very well at all."

It's not the sort of thing he admits to, would probably never admit to if anyone but John was on the line, and he hears John inhale sharply, startled.

"What's wrong?" John asks, voice softening with concern.

Harold doesn't respond at first. But John is likely fearing the worst, ready to rush to his aid in an instant, now that he knows Harold is unwell. Then, a sharp cramp stabs near Harold's navel, spurring him to reply with, "My stomach. It's...not agreeing with me today, I'm afraid," as he hurries to rub at the pang. "But no need to worry about me. I'll be fine. Mrs. Yablonski might not be."

He's expecting John to make some attempt at reassurance, but John doesn't get the chance. "You're right—Yablonski's grandson just showed up, and he's looking pretty pissed off."

"Probably over the inheritance," Harold says. Which would go to Kyle Yablonski's father, not Kyle, but logic and sense rarely matter in cases like this. If they did, he would likely never receive another number.

"Probably...and he's got a gun."

Harold's heart and stomach lurch, and he bolts upright, as quickly as his body will allow. A gun. The knowledge that someone has a gun—especially someone near John—never fails to give him palpitations. Worse still is when it's followed by the sounds of John jumping into action. "And I'm guessing you're about to introduce yourself to him?"

"Yep."

With a tremulous, "Be careful, Mr. Reese," Harold turns his attention to the feed from the camera John aimed toward the apartment complex. John strides toward the building and disappears inside, and Harold switches to the lobby security feed just as his stomach makes another attempt at mutiny. He swallows against the dreadful taste filling his mouth and the awful feeling rising in his throat, clamping a firm hand over his lips. The other fumbles to loosen his tie, to undo it without wrecking the thing in his haste.

His eyes water. It's going to happen, isn't it? And oh, god, it will be bad, it will _hurt_. He swallows even harder, yanking off the tie and tossing it aside, not caring where it ends up, begging his body to cooperate.

As he fights it, he hears the crashes of two big men slamming into walls, the thuds of flesh against flesh and wood, the grunts and groans of anger and pain. Oh, god, if he throws up, it'll distract John. He can't do that. He _can't_.

After what seems like an eternity, the spell eases, and he takes a deep, relieved breath, then another, and another, and swipes a hand over his damp brow.

He's just in time to catch the beeping of the Lost Signal alert coming from his computer and the sudden silence of his connection to John. The accompanying jolt of fear is, thank goodness, short-lived. Onscreen, the massive Kyle Yablonski goes flying through the apartment building's glass front door, landing in a heap on the sidewalk outside.

Harold snorts, half-amused, half-exasperated, and murmurs, "Oh, John."

John walks out of the building, headed straight for Yablonski. He snatches the gun from Yablonski's pocket and tucks it away in his own, then looms over Yablonski, wagging a finger. Harold places a quick call to Fusco to take care of the situation, and Fusco agrees with—for once—minimal grumbling. Harold wonders if he sounds much sicker than he thought.

With that, the case is over. John is safe, Mildred Yablonski is safe, and someone is on their way to handle the aftermath. All Harold has to do now is put things away and set up John's new phone. As he tries to dive in to the simple work, he falters, his concentration wavering with every twinge. His head is filled with the same sludge as his guts, his exhausted brain turned to mush and consumed by thoughts of his insides.

As he types and clicks and taps, Harold's mind and body refuse to allow him to forget that he is ill. The temptation to give up and go lie down on the bed in the back room—or perhaps the bathroom floor—is high, increasing with every turn of his stomach. But he has work to do. It's hardly the first time he's worked through an illness, hardly the worst he's dealt with, either, and it probably won't be the last.

He doesn't notice Bear approach until a head drops onto his lap with a little whuff. As though sensing Harold's distress, Bear huddles up close, furry cheek pressed to Harold's belly.

"I'm fine," Harold says, taking a moment to smile down at him, finding his discarded tie draped over Bear's back, the strip of navy blue silk standing out against Bear's fur. With a chuckle, he takes it and lays it on his desk, then scratches behind Bear's velvety ears. Bear stares up at him with big, mournful eyes, until Harold's belly gurgles again. While Bear looks on with confusion, Harold's free hand shoots to his middle, and he whispers, "Oh," as he rubs at the cramps inside. "All right, I'm not fine. But I will be eventually."

He keeps his other hand buried in Bear's thick fur, grounding himself in that small point of comfort as he closes his eyes. Bear is so warm, and he cares, dropping his head back onto Harold's lap with a tiny whine. And yet, it's not enough. Every passing second has Harold feeling worse than the last. He wants to go home. He wants his stomach to _stop_. He wants, to his dismay, someone to hold him.

"Get ahold of yourself, Harold," he mutters. He's a grown damn man. He doesn't _need_ somebody to cuddle him and coddle him. But there is a substantial difference between _need_ and _want_, he's found. And he _wants_.

No matter. He won't get what he wants, because he will not ask for it. And that is that.

When John finally walks in, carrying a bottle of water and wearing more bruises than he had yesterday, Harold doesn't bother taking his hand off his abdomen. There is no point. He already admitted that he is ill, and, well. It _hurts_.

"Is Mrs. Yablonski all right?" Harold asks.

"Still asleep, last I checked," John says, ignoring Bear's enthusiastic greeting to head for Harold's side. "And I'd ask if you were okay, but I'm pretty sure I know the answer. Here." He uncaps the bottle and hands it to Harold before pocketing his new phone, while Bear admits defeat and heads for his bed. "Didn't know if you liked ginger ale or Sprite, and I didn't want to make things worse—" He gestures toward his own belly. "—in there, so. Water seemed safe. Ish."

"Thank you. And I'm not terribly fond of most mass-produced sodas, for the record, especially when my stomach is upset." Harold takes a tiny, tentative sip. The water does not go down easily, landing hard in his stomach and sloshing like he chugged the whole bottle—a thought that only worsens the roiling. "Good morning, Mr. Reese." The greeting is long overdue, but propriety demands he say it anyway. "We haven't received another number yet."

"Doesn't look like a good morning for you," John says, pressing his damp, blissfully cool palm to Harold's forehead. Harold allows a sigh, hoping it sounds irritated, but resists the urge to lean into the touch. "Fever, probably. You're burning up." John drops his hand to Harold's shoulder and gives it a light squeeze. "Is your stomach hurting, or are you just nauseous?"

"Nauseated," Harold corrects. The immediate impulse is to deflect, and to deny, deny, deny, even after prior confirmation. But John looks concerned, not patronizing, and it's John. It's safe to answer honestly. Not once has John taken advantage of any of his more obvious weaknesses, and John already knows he is sick anyway.

"And it's the former, I'm afraid," Harold replies, "though with a great deal of the latter."

"Yikes." John winces. "Scale of one to ten, how bad's the pain?"

Despite already giving in, Harold's first instinct is still to be curt. "I'm _fine_," he snaps, regretting it immediately. John counters it with one of those infinitely patient looks of his, lips faintly curved, and Harold relents. "That depends entirely on your definition of pain, Mr. Reese." His voice sounds strained, even to his own ears. He tries to ease it with another sip of water. It doesn't help. "If you are strictly considering actual pain, a mere two, perhaps three or four when the cramping is at its peak."

The pain is obnoxious, but he could ignore it, if needed. The nausea, however? Goodness, just thinking about it has him swallowing another mouthful of spit and leaves sour acid rising in his throat. He takes a slow, deep, tremulous breath. How could he have ever mistaken this unrelenting _misery_ for his unpleasant normal, even for a second?

"If, however, you also add the profound nausea into the equation? A solid ten."

John grimaces. "That bad, huh?"

"I'm really not a fan of vomiting," is one of the biggest understatements Harold has ever made in his life. Unlike blood, vomit itself doesn't bother him—being roommates with Nathan, Arthur, and their sizable stash of alcohol back at MIT broke him of that. God, they'd done so much drinking it's a wonder they had any brain cells left to accomplish anything at all. And he is still astounded that none of them wound up in the emergency room for alcohol poisoning. For other things, yes, but not that.

No, it's the act itself that's the problem, something that, like many things, went from unpleasant to horrifying in the span of an explosion. The strain it places on parts of his body that are so badly damaged—there are no words. As he's recovered, he's had quite a few incidents while adjusting to medications or from illnesses like this. All enough to make the dreadful cramps coursing through his belly feel like a tickle.

He could tolerate the sickly squirming in his guts and the loathsome vomit and the loss of dignity much more if the act didn't hurt so damn much. _Tolerating_ is an art Harold has become quite good at these days. But some things even Harold struggles to tolerate. Vomiting is one of them.

Most likely, his stomach will feel a tad bit better if he lets the unpleasantness out. The rest of him, however, will not.

"Let me take a quick look," John says, letting go of Harold's shoulder and crouching down in front of him. "Make sure nothing's gone too pear-shaped in there."

"Did you acquire a medical degree without my knowledge?" comes out with unnecessary tartness.

John is, of course, unfazed. "Yes," he says, deadpan. Then, he quirks his lips, and, looking up at Harold, adds, "Just years of experience living the glamorous life of an international spy."

"Oh, dear," Harold says, suppressing a shudder but not his expression of disgust. He knows what John is implying. John's voluntary taste in food alone is enough to make even the tamest stomach rebellious—just thinking of some of the snacks he's offered to share is nearly enough to make Harold gag—and there were likely many times in John's past where the basic need for sustenance, not choosiness, selected his dubious meals for him. Lord only knows what sort of horrors have festered in John's insides in the past, or how often he had to play the role of his own barely-trained doctor and nurse while coping with them.

"I should be able to tell if you need somebody with one, though," John continues. "Or Shaw."

"Neither will be necessary," Harold says, adding, "I'm fine," just as his belly betrays him with an embarrassing, painful gurgle. He forces himself not to react.

"Sure you are." John reaches for Harold's stomach, then pauses. "Can I unbutton your shirt?"

Narrowing his eyes, Harold moves his hand to the front of his abdomen, covering some of his buttons. "Why?"

"Makes it easier to check," John says, while Harold studies his face, searching for any signs of mockery. He finds none, but that still doesn't make him anymore eager to allow John to see his bloated, middle-aged paunch. "Hemorrhaging causes bruises sometimes—"

"I'm not hemorrhaging."

"—and it'll make it easier for me to feel if anything else has gone wrong in there. Lumps, tenderness, anything else." John places his hand on Harold's. "I just want to check up on you, okay? Humor me, Finch."

Harold can see the worry in John's eyes, and refuses to consider why it's so much easier to relent than to resist. "Very well," he says, and tugs his shirt free from his trousers. "It's not much to look at."

A brief smile flashes across John's face, and John gets started on the buttons. He undoes them quickly, efficiently, stopping at Harold's chest before nudging the edges of Harold's brown shirt aside. When he reaches Harold's thin undershirt and tugs it up, Harold gets the urge to suck in his stomach, and quickly regrets it. John, thank goodness, doesn't comment.

"No bruising. Looks like no one out there needs their ass kicked for hitting you in the gut, then," John says, with a ephemeral half-smile, before slipping back into professionalism. He eyes Harold's belly attentively, gaze drifting to the lower right and catching on the faded scar there. "Appendectomy?"

"Yes." The cause of one of those college ER visits, just after his last final exam of his sophomore year. He'd ignored the pain for so long that his appendix was on the brink of rupturing—not his brightest move. But he aced every single exam.

"So we can rule that out." John's cool, callused fingers make contact with his skin, and Harold's muscles twitch beneath the touch. "Sorry."

"Just get this over with."

Nodding once, John gets started, pressing into Harold's belly in the soft place below his navel. There's no scorn or disgust on John's face, only a look of deep concentration as his hands roam over Harold's midsection, seeking anomalies beneath its plump and slightly hairy surface.

Harold leans back, as much as his body allows, hoping to grant John better access. After a while, he finds himself relaxing into the experience. The palpating touch is strangely good. Each little instance of contact is a small burst of relief, a tangible sign of John's concern. John seems determined to leave no spot unchecked. Yet each kind touch leaves him wanting, all woefully inadequate, mere tastes of what Harold abruptly realizes he wants—someone to rub his belly.

No, not someone: John.

It's a jarring realization. That is not the sort of comfort Harold usually seeks, especially from John. But it would be lovely if somebody else took over comforting his belly, if John tended to the sickness grinding away within him, if John placed his palm against the curve of Harold's abdomen and stroked it with perfect pressure and care while Harold surrendered to his exhaustion. If John tried to ease his pain.

The idea makes Harold's hackles rise. He doesn't _need_ somebody to give him a belly rub, of all things, especially John. No, what he needs is to put a stop to this train of thought before it causes a catastrophe—though he fears that it already has.

John would be so good at rubbing his belly, though, with those large and capable hands of his. His strong fingers are cool and gentle, putting only enough pressure on Harold's abdomen to examine, not hurt. He'd know how to handle Harold's temperamental middle, what to do to ease the pain without unsettling it even more.

"Was it something you ate, do you think?"

The words break Harold free from his reverie, and it takes him a moment to formulate coherent thought. Could it be food poisoning? "No, I don't think so." He'd be in much worse shape if it was. "The so-called 'stomach flu' has been making the rounds at one of my other places of employment. I suspect I caught this there. Rest, fluids, bland food when I can stomach it—I know the drill."

"Hm." With pursed lips and a knitted brow, John presses both hands to Harold's abdomen. "Your belly feels kind of tight. Bloated." He glances back up at Harold, with a look reminiscent of Bear's sad-eyed stare. "You're not doing too well, huh?"

"My body likes to go all out these days," Harold says. "If there is a way for a system to malfunction, it _will_ find it."

"No tenderness or anything, though?"

"No, none," Harold replies, as his belly lets out a particularly thunderous growl that John surely must hear, and likely even feels beneath his fingertips. Harold's face goes hot. John doesn't react. "Sorry about that. There's just...a lot of discomfort. And that."

"I bet." John rests his hand on Harold's belly, palm covering his navel, not pushing on it at all. He strokes it with his thumb, slow and arcing absent-minded swipes that rasp over the trail of hair running down the middle of the curve and brush lightly across Harold's skin. It feels so good it nearly hurts.

Not wanting him to stop, Harold draws only the most necessary of breaths and holds still, mind following the path of every slide of that thumb. It is the best thing in the world, that hand, that thumb, for a time. Slow, even strokes, drawn across a part that needs comfort so desperately. For a moment, he forgets that his belly is hurting, that his stomach is roiling, that his body is so tired and sick. All he feels is that hand, that thumb, providing a ghost of the relief he so terribly needs with one stroke after another after another.

He looks at John's face, and finds John's gaze lingering on his belly, wide-eyed and intent, almost as palpable as his touch. His eyes, shadowed by his long lashes, follow the path of his thumb, watching it move over too-pale skin and silvering hairs, like he's entranced by the sight of it all. Like he's enjoying looking at Harold's bare belly. But, no, surely not. Never mind how much that idea appeals to Harold's vanity. His belly is just a belly, quite possibly one of the most ordinary kinds of bellies in the world—that of a man who's past his prime. And it's hurting right now. All John wants to do is ease some of the pain inside, most likely.

But if John _did_ enjoy looking at it, and touching it? Well. Harold certainly has no objections to that.

Far too soon, John catches himself. He shakes his head, and, voice the slightest bit uneven, says, "You're probably right," and clears his throat. With a wry little smile, he gives Harold's belly a light pat and gets to his feet. "Really bad stomach bug. Sorry."

Tamping down on his disappointment, suppressing an undignified whimper, Harold tugs his undershirt back where it belongs, saying, "Oh, it could be worse." He doesn't bother buttoning the other just yet. Instead, he shifts in his seat, trying to get more comfortable with his aching midsection. That just serves to agitate his hip and his spine, not to quell the heavy disquiet, and unsettles his insides as well. Both of his hands go back to his belly, and he rubs fretfully, not bothering to stifle his small, "Mm," as the ache and the queasiness build.

John lays a hand high on Harold's back, the other starting for Harold's stomach before pulling away. "Cramping?"

"Indeed. And terribly queasy." The nausea crashes over him, and Harold breathes laboriously through it, mentally letting loose a stream of curse words that he is far too polite to say aloud outside the sanctuary of his head. It's _horrendous_.

The wave ebbs. Harold exhales, slumping back in his seat, clutching his stomach.

"Is there anything I can get you?" John asks, and Harold sees that he grabbed the smaller garbage can while Harold's stomach was attempting its coup. John sets it back down and gives Harold's shoulder a squeeze, before leaving the hand in place.

A tiny burp slips out, barely audible. Harold excuses himself, his face flushing hot. As John waves it off, a dark and vulnerable place inside Harold's heart wants to lash out, to snap at John with something cutting, just to get some privacy.

But John would take it with his usual aplomb and an indulgent little hint of a smile, for John is as much a master in the art of tolerating things as Harold—especially tolerating Harold's tetchier moods. It would take words far too cruel for the situation to make John go away, and even cruelty is not enough to guarantee that the stubborn man will leave. So Harold is likely stuck with John until his stomach settles—which, considering the state of it, won't be happening anytime soon—or he goes home.

Another part of him, the part of his mind that's curled up in a weak and tragic little ball of misery, is grateful for John's presence, pleading and whimpering for Harold to accept the proffered comfort. John is, after all, someone he adores, who seems to care a great deal for him. Why else would someone who has been injured and sickened in countless horrific ways be so tolerant of a crotchety old man with a paltry stomachache?

Would there truly be any harm in letting John stay? In letting John take care of him? What would be the harm?

Oh, the road to many a personal hell has been paved with that question.

"Harold," John prompts again, gentle and concerned, "do you need anything?"

_What would be the harm?_ He thinks of John's hand on his belly, John's thumb, the worried look in John's lovely blue eyes, and he _knows_.

He forces himself to consider John's query instead, methodically piecing his answer together as a distraction. Their first aid kit—or room, rather—is filled to bursting with everything needed for wound care, bacterial infections, or pain, not to mention the cash he keeps on hand for emergency acts of bribery. If he had a bullet or a blade in his belly, they could handle it easily. A stomach virus, however...he's dipped into their stash of antacids, which did nothing, and antidiarrheals. There's a recently-expired bottle of Pepto Bismol, too, but he never has been able to keep that down and isn't going to try this time. Some laxatives, which would be a terribly unwise choice...

Clearly he needs to consider some prescription-only additions to their supplies.

"I suspect it says something truly unflattering about our lives that we are better equipped to handle sepsis than the stomach flu," he finally says, earning a gratifying little laugh from John.

"You're probably right."

Neither of them has a penchant for ginger ale or saltines, nor does Shaw. There _might_ be a box of herbal tea buried somewhere in the break room, but it would be dusty and very old, a relic of the days when the place was used as a library. Though, if he's remembering correctly—and the coincidence nearly makes him laugh—he threw out some former employee's ancient box of tea for upset stomachs just last month.

"When I'm feeling better, I'll be sure to acquire everything I can think of to aid in the recovery from gastrointestinal ailments," Harold says. "Until then?" He sighs wearily. "Honestly, Mr. Reese, all I need right now is to go home. And, unless we happen to get a new number on my way out, I do believe I am going to do that very soon."

When he can find the strength. Thinking makes him tired—no, _breathing_ makes him tired. Existence is exhausting. His entire body aches, from his overheated skin to the pit of his marrow, from his head to his back to his feet. His belly hurts. At some point, he _is_ going to throw up, and it will be awful. He would quite like to lie down for a bit in the meantime, on his comfortable and familiar bed with cool cotton sheets and fluffy pillows that know the shape of his old and sore bones, a piping hot cup of tea nearby and a heating pad soothing his insides.

_In private_, he thinks, until the warm weight of John's hand on his shoulder recaptures his attention as John asks, "You want me to take you?"

Such a simple touch, and yet it offers a surprising amount of comfort. Just a steady hand curled around his shoulder, an undemanding message of concern.

Even as John says, with a sly smile, "Or are you still trying to pretend that it'd be bad if I figured out where you live?" his hand says something else—that it will be okay if Harold turns him down or if Harold accepts. He will support Harold regardless.

In what is perhaps a fit of madness, Harold again wonders how that hand would feel rubbing his cramping and queasy stomach properly, comforting it instead of examining it or stroking it. Or how it would feel to be wrapped in John's arms. John would certainly give him both if he asked, without hesitation. Maybe he should request that John accompany him.

He mentally shakes his head at himself. Goodness, he must be truly ill to be considering such things, to be regressing so perilously close to the mentality of a child. But illness has a way of shining a spotlight on one's loneliness, he's found, and he is _incredibly_ lonely. It has been so _long_ since anyone other than a paid nurse cared for him when he was ailing, so long since he's allowed it. His chest hurts just from thinking of it. When was the last—Grace.

Grace. He'd had a migraine that day, the tension of fighting with Nathan over the Irrelevant List eating away at his skull. Grace sat with him for hours in their dark bedroom, his throbbing head pillowed in her lap as she massaged his temples and stroked his hair, not saying a single word until the headache evaporated beneath her kind touch.

Just a few days later, Harold Martin was dead, and Harold Finch was born. And the ache in his chest as he thinks of it is far worse than anything happening in his abdomen. He mercilessly shoves the memories aside, but the rest of the thoughts don't stay banished for long.

Introversion is his natural state. So many of his earliest memories are of contented solitude, of reading or doing farm work or tinkering on machines with only himself for company. Neither of his kind yet taciturn parents were physically affectionate people—his mother was a bit more tactile than his father, but not by much. And Harold never felt the lack of that touch until his mother was gone and his father's mind started slipping away.

He'd had to care for himself after that. It was the perfect catalyst for his trip toward isolation. Nathan slowed the descent, but Nathan was gone, Grace was gone, and now...

Now, he is so lonely, so alone so much of the time.

His introversion, to his occasional dismay, does not translate to a lack of need for occasional touch, to a lack of need for human connection. It's a delicate balance—one he never has managed to master. He can tell that most keenly in moments like this, when something hurts or he is sick or both.

Dear god, it would be wondrous if somebody cared enough about him to hold him, to wrap their arms around him and pull him against them. If somebody cared enough to place their hand upon his aching belly and calm the pain and nausea within. Judging by the look on John's face, like this illness is affecting him as much as Harold, Harold suspects somebody does.

A cautious, hopeful, _Yes, please,_ hangs on the tip of his tongue as he looks into John's big, earnest blue eyes. It would be so nice to—

His stomach lurches violently, cutting off that line of thought in a fit of coughing. Harold gets out, "Oh, dear. I think I'm..." before clenching his mouth shut and gesturing for John to give him the garbage can, just in case—which John does. This one is bad, the closest call yet, and Harold sternly orders his stomach not to go through with the act.

It doesn't listen.

But John is there, holding him in a firm grip as his guts turn themselves inside out. "Don't fight it," John says, bracing him. "Just let it happen. Let it all out. I've got you."

Harold does, and it is awful and foul, but he doesn't have a choice. His stomach keeps heaving and heaving until he is wrung out, eyes watering, throat burning with acid and face burning with fever and shame. He retches for what seems like forever. John stays at his side, murmuring an endless refrain of soothing words, telling him it'll be okay, that he shouldn't fight it, that he'll feel better soon, once he gets that stuff out.

It does end, eventually.

And as Harold catches his breath and collects himself between pitiful moans, he realizes something—it ended without as much pain as expected. His neck and back hurt only the tiniest bit more than usual. Because of John.

"Thank you," Harold rasps.

"Of course."

"No," Harold says. "No, you don't understand. I—" Unable to concatenate the right string of words, he flaps a hand, frustrated. He can't even begin to convey the amount of gratitude John's assistance deserves, or why it deserves so much. "Thank you."

"Anytime." John smiles, and picks up the bottle of water, handing it to Harold with a soft, "Here."

Harold rinses his mouth thoroughly, grimacing. "Ugh," he says, once he spits and sets the trash can aside. "Oh, that was...that was quite dreadful." He lays a hand upon his stomach again. It feels empty, relieved, hollow, still quite uneasy, vomiting merely a temporary fix. The rest of his belly churns on, cramping and aching away. Much as he would like to be done, he has a terribly long day and night ahead of him. "I'm so sorry that you witnessed...that."

"Hey," John says, "I've seen worse. Hell, I've _done_ worse. Don't worry about it. Did it hurt your back?"

"No." Harold risks taking a drink. The water is marvelous against a throat that's now raw. His stomach disapproves, but the first drink stays down. He takes another sip, and sags against the broad, warm body next to him. Damn it all, he is _exhausted,_ and he hurts and he's sick and he wants to be held. "My back is fine."

"Rest of you okay?" John asks, not hesitating to wrap an arm around Harold and pull him even closer.

Something in Harold's chest uncoils, and he lets out a soft sigh and relaxes, closing his eyes and luxuriating in the closeness. John is warm, solid, strong, so easy to lean into. Familiar and trustworthy, smelling of sweat and coffee and John Reese, scents Harold never would've imagined he would one day find comforting. John is steadying. Harold's body is in turmoil, but John's presence, John's touch steadies some of him. Not enough to be curative, no, but enough to make a positive impact.

What it does for the loneliness is far more miraculous. For the moment, Harold feels not like an animated corpse that hasn't figured out that it's died, but a living and breathing person—a person who is relevant to someone. John's arm around him is tangible proof that Harold matters, that Harold is important to someone who is important to him again. The sheer goodness of it is more painful than the illness. How on earth did he manage to forget how wonderful it feels to be held tenderly by someone he trusts?

The rest of Harold, however, does not feel wonderful. Reflexively, he answers John's question with a blatantly untrue, "Yes," one last burst of unnecessary self-defense. He reconsiders quickly. John has just seen him vomit, for god's sake, and is still by his side, offering comfort instead of taking advantage of his latest glaring vulnerability. It seems safe to answer honestly, like an expression of how much he trusts John when he says, "No. No, I am not." He takes a deep breath and makes himself add, "My belly hurts."

Giving him a small hug, John says, "Yeah, that's what I thought." After a moment, he adds, "Let me take you back to my place."

It takes a few seconds to formulate a response. "Without properly courting me first?" he teases, a beat later than he usually would, were he at his best, yet still earning a chuckle. "I'm appalled at you, Mr. Reese."

"You bought me an apartment, _Harold_," John retorts. "If anyone's been doing any courting in this relationship, it's you. Taking me out to dinner, asking me to go to the movies with you...but I never said I wouldn't try to woo you back. I'll fix you a nice dinner of dry toast and hot tea, lure you into bed with some fluffy pillows and a warm blanket..."

Harold manages a weak laugh. "Sounds...romantic?" It sounds quite appealing, actually. He suspects something else is being offered here, something the two of them have been dancing around for far too long. John's next offering cements it.

"Yeah, and I'll even cuddle you, read you a book, and give you enough belly rubs to make Bear jealous." At the mention of his name, Bear makes a curious sound. "If you want."

Harold _does_ want, very much, and he is just sick enough to take it. This is not something one just offers a friend, though—or, at least, cuddles and belly rubs are not things people like them would offer to mere friends. Certainly, he wouldn't have offered it to Nathan, and he was quietly and madly in love with Nathan for _decades_.

But he is, admittedly, no authority on what so-called "normal" friends might do in this situation. He just knows that he and John are not men who cuddle, or who try to soothe each other's aching body parts with touch. That is a level of intimacy they have not achieved.

Yet?

In comparison to what they have already done for one another, though, what is being offered should be insignificant. They've both risked their lives to save the other's on so many occasions. They have accepted each other completely, despite the many sins in their pasts—even the sins of Harold's that hurt John so deeply. But Harold can't help but think that this is _different_ somehow. That the closeness, the openness demanded by easing this measly little stomachache of his—especially with the accompanying talk of courtship—will change everything.

"Careful with that sort of dirty talk, John," he says, reaching over to shut down his computers. "I may start to think you're not a gentleman."

"You thought I was a gentleman?"

"I've no idea why," Harold shoots back. "You don't even wear a tie, you scoundrel." At that, John chuckles, and Harold grins, until a cramp jabs him in the side. He sucks in a sharp breath. "Also, if you are joking about that belly rub," he says, leaning back and resting his hand on his middle, both for emphasis and relief, "I will be as unhappy as my belly currently is."

"I never joke about belly rubs," John says, amused. "Just ask Bear."

Before Harold can say more, his insides rumble again, making a truly atrocious sound. "Oof." He cringes. "That..."

"Sounded like it hurt," John interrupts, grabbing a chair and rolling it over next to Harold's. He sits down beside him, and says, "Here," splaying his hand next to Harold's, right where the gurgling came from. Much of the tension in Harold's body melts away at the simple gesture. Some—but not all, unfortunately—of the ache seems to disappear. John's heavy hand is pure comfort. He cradles Harold's belly, holding it with hardly any pressure just like before, recognizing its delicate state. It's everything Harold wanted, exactly as good as he imagined—no, _better_. A sense of calm spreads through his abdomen, a sense that he is cared for settling deep within him.

Harold exhales, and lets himself enjoy the sensation, until he remembers John is owed a response.

"Still," he says, "please, do pardon my body's loud exclamations. Goodness, I feel so revolting."

"You're not," John says, and his touch becomes even more wonderful when he starts to move his hand, running it over Harold's distended middle in long, slow strokes. Harold sighs and closes his eyes. "And don't worry about it—I was a soldier," John continues. "I've been friends with guys who liked to try to light their own farts on fire. Some of them even succeeded."

Harold's eyes snap open, mood shattered, and he wrinkles his nose. "Oh, that's _charming,_" he says, and John chuckles. He wishes he could say he's never heard of such things, but he _was_ a teenage boy himself once, after all—despite how much he might try to conceal that fact. In a town with few opportunities to make compatible friends or to find more intellectually-stimulating activities to do with those friends, no less. While he's never been fond of scatological humor—sexual innuendo was more to his taste in his youth—jokes about digestive matters used to be rather inescapable.

"Throw a bunch of young guys together, and things get gross," John says. "The things I've heard...and smelled..." He laughs again.

Amusement fading, John adds, "I just don't want you to hurt. Or feel bad. And I know you're feeling pretty bad. You've never told me you didn't feel well before."

"Haven't I?" Harold asks, but before he's even finished speaking, he knows the answer—of course he hasn't.

"You kept saying you weren't sick every five seconds when you got that cold last year." John's hand goes still on Harold's upper abdomen, resting over his queasy stomach. "And the year before. Figured you must be feeling like hell this time."

Yes, that sounds about right. Much like John, he endures discomfort as silently as possible. He pushes it to the background, keeps going no matter how much his spine hurts or his hip aches or anything else. Some sneezing, a sore throat, a cough—somehow that doesn't faze him. Not nearly as much as this.

This illness caught him off guard, stripping him of his defenses, especially the ones that protect him from his own heart. It seems like a regression, like he's descended to the level of a child with a so-called "tummy ache"—something worthy of scorn for a man of his age. But maybe it's not a regression at all.

Maybe it's a release.

"I do," Harold admits, and it is _freeing._ "I am, unquestionably, feeling like complete and utter _hell_."

"And I just want to help," John quietly says, beginning to slide his hand over Harold's belly again, and Harold smiles. "To take care of you. I know I can't fix it, but..."

"I know," Harold says. The sheer depth of his fondness for John astounds him sometimes. It does it again now, his heart swelling brightly and sweetly in his chest from it. "You're helping a great deal." He pats John's hand. "I could have...I was...quite afraid that I would hurt myself badly if I, well..." It's a difficult admission, made even more so by the foulness of the act in question.

"If you puked?"

"Yes." Harold grimaces. "That. And I did not. The only thing that hurts more than usual at the moment is my stomach." With a sigh, he rubs at his middle, and his hand bumps against John's. He must seem like he's whining. Perhaps he is, a bit. But he truly does feel dire. He lets out a wry, pained laugh, and adds, "My stomach really hurts."

"I know," John says. "I'm sorry."

John is a significant comfort, though, and that's what pushes Harold to ask, "Would you be willing to accompany me to my place, instead of me going to yours?" The motion of John's hand falters, just for a moment, and Harold continues, saying, "I have bread for toast, plenty of tea and books, and a nice bed for giving and receiving belly rubs."

"A nice bed?" John says, suggestively. "Without properly courting me first, Harold?"

Harold turns his chair just to stare at him for a moment, then lets out a small laugh. "I thought you said purchasing an apartment for you was a gesture of courtship. And then there's the suits, and the other gifts, and—"

"And the purpose." Smiling softly, John leans in and kisses Harold on the cheek.

Harold's skin goes hot beneath the fleeting brush of John's lips, skin seeming to tingle. Pleasure suffuses the rest of him, along with profound bafflement. He resists the urge to reach up and touch his face, and asks, "Did you just kiss me?" John shrugs. "You do realize I'm probably contagious, don't you?"

"Maybe I'm trying to get a few belly rubs out of you," John says. "Besides, I didn't kiss your mouth, and I'll probably catch it anyway." He kisses Harold's cheek again. Harold smiles. "I think we've been heading this way for a while, don't you?"

"It's not terribly surprising. I just wish—" A sharp pain in his gut underscores the point he was planning to make. With a small "mm," he rubs at the pang, until John nudges his fingers away and takes over, pushing his fingers deeper into Harold's flesh than before. "I just wish I felt well enough to appreciate it right now. Oh, goodness, this is unpleasant." John lightens his touch, and Harold clarifies, pushing down insistently on John's hand, "No, not you. You're lovely. But what's happening in my belly is very much _not_ lovely, and I wish it would hurry up and stop."

"I can text Megan or Farouk," John says, pressing firmly on Harold's middle again, the slow and meandering strokes becoming a deliberate, winding circles. Counterclockwise, Harold realizes after a moment. Against the flow of digestion, according to the websites he's checked while grappling with some of the side effects of his medications. John likely knows all too well what symptom comes next, should the medication he took earlier not work. "See if they can give you anything. I know you hate doctors, but..."

"I hate hospitals," Harold corrects, though he's not terribly fond of doctors, either, "and I'm not dealing with anything I cannot cope with. This is simply your garden variety bellyache. If a mere child can handle it, so can I."

"Maybe for the nausea?" John suggests. "They've got meds for that. And you do have a damn good reason to hate puking."

Harold considers the state of his actual stomach, the agonizing queasiness of it. It's getting worse again. "Yes," he says, slowly. "Yes, I do." Something that could actually settle it would be _lovely_. "So long as I don't have to visit either of our friends at their places of employment—" He cringes. "—I am very much open to the idea of tackling the nausea with medication."

Carefully, he gets out of his seat, and the movement makes his stomach lurch. He promptly sits back down. "But we'd better acquire it quickly, I'm afraid," he adds. "I'd rather not repeat—oh, no."

John rushes for the abused garbage can, keeping its contents out of Harold's sight and away from his nose, ready to react further in an instant. But it's a false alarm. With a few gulps of sour, burning bile, the wave ebbs, and Harold can breathe.

"That won't be necessary," Harold says, followed by a quiet and weak, "Oh, my belly." John sets the can back down, while Harold swallows hard. "For now, anyway."

"Good." John slips out of the chair and drops to his knees, and he kisses Harold's belly. Then, in one almost infuriatingly smooth motion, he stands and holds open his arms. Harold cautiously but eagerly levers himself out of his seat and steps into John's embrace, getting rewarded with a kiss to his forehead.

"This whole day—" Harold thinks of John and quickly reconsiders. "—no, roughly ninety-something percent of it; forgive me for not calculating the exact amount—can go straight to Hell."

"I'm sorry you feel so bad." John lays his hand on Harold's belly and resumes rubbing it, starting with the gentlest pressure down below his navel, then drawing tiny circles in a spiral across his middle, staying far away from his stomach.

Harold closes his eyes, sighing softly. Oh, that feels good. John is quite talented at this. Perhaps one day he might ask John to rub his belly when it isn't hurting. That seems like it could be quite pleasurable. Maybe after a good meal, or for no reason at all. Or maybe he'll ask John to tend to his back or his neck when they are at their worst. He's never met a professional he'd fully trust with either, but he just might trust John.

With one last pat, John says, "Let's get you to the doctor," and pulls away, pausing to kiss Harold's cheek again. "Then I'll take you home."

John goes to fetch something for Harold to use if his stomach rebels in the car, taking the sullied garbage can with him. Harold, meanwhile, buttons his shirt, then sits back down and sends a quick text to Dr. Tillman. She likes him, and he likes her. Madani always seems uneasy around him—suspecting he's the leader of some sort of criminal enterprise, no doubt, which is fair. Bags full of crisp bills and companions with bullet wounds don't exactly speak of innocence, after all.

Besides, calling on a surgeon for a stomach virus seems excessive. If Tillman can't help...

But, for once, Megan is quick to reply, first with a frowning emoji, then a message. She offers to take an early lunch break and meet at the safehouse she knows, and Harold readily agrees.

As he texts, that dreadful feverish chill creeps back up on him. He finishes his response quickly and wraps his arms around himself, not noticing that he's shivering until John's draping his jacket over his shaking shoulders.

"Here," John says, softly, patting the jacket in place. It's still slightly warm from his body, and smells strongly of him. One of the pockets bulges with a plastic garbage bag, and Harold tries not to think of its possible future use. Instead, he burrows happily into the jacket, thanking John as he tugs it further around himself. With a sympathetic smile, John settles a hand briefly between Harold's shoulders, and says, "Better?"

"Much," he replies. "But I would be even better if I were...horizontal."

John kisses his temple. "I think we can make that happen."

John gets Bear leashed up and ready, and the three of them depart, headed not for the stairs, but for the elevator Harold usually doesn't use. He's never been much of a fan of elevators. But he is exhausted enough, _miserable_ enough not to resist John steering him in that direction with a hand on the small of his back. Once inside, he's grateful for the choice. He gets to lean back against the wall, close his eyes, and feel every bit of his misery, and he does.

"I hope you aren't expecting a day of scintillating conversation," he says, and John's hand joins his upon his belly again. "I'm afraid I won't be very good company."

"I'll just talk to your stomach, then," John says, rubbing at Harold's side, amusement in his voice. Harold pictures the ridiculous man trying to engage in deep conversation with his belly, acting like his navel is a mouth, and winds up smiling for a moment himself. "Seems like it has a lot to say."

"And none of it complimentary." Harold sighs. "Goodness, it has worked itself up into a truly impressive snit, hasn't it? I mean, it's a bit of a curmudgeon on an average day, but good lord."

"Maybe it just wants someone to listen."

"Perhaps so." Harold drops his tired hands, and John takes over. "You're welcome to lend your ear, if you'd like, but frankly, I am tired of it."

John laughs quietly. Then, sounding serious, he asks, "This _is_ okay, right? Me rubbing your stomach?"

"If you're thinking of stopping..." Harold says, in a warning tone, turning to give John a glare.

"Not stopping," John says. "Just making sure."

Mollified, Harold turns back around, and settles against John again. "You are doing quite a lot of good for me right now," he says, and pats John's hand. "Trust me, if it becomes a problem, my belly or I _will_ let you know."

With a soft exhale, John says, "Good." He goes quiet for a moment, before adding, "You know, usually I like your belly."

Harold cracks an eye open. Torn between amused and doubtful, he asks, "Oh, really?"

"It's a pretty great belly."

Harold scoffs at that. Even when it's not bloated with sickness, his belly is larger than it should be, and softer. Not enough that it bothers him greatly. It's just...his belly is quite mundane for a man his age. He has the somewhat squishy body of the middle-aged, disabled computer programmer that he is, with the pudgy, round belly that goes with it. For someone with a body like John's to call any part of Harold's "pretty great" is _baffling_.

"I hardly believe that you find my perfectly average abdomen 'pretty great,' John," Harold says. "I've already expressed my interest in you. You don't have to try to flatter me to woo me. I'm already wooed."

"I really do, though." John says it with such sincerity that it gives Harold pause. Harold opens his eyes fully, and finds John's gaze is on his belly, his expression fond. "I just saw it up close." Maneuvering around Bear and his leash, he slips behind Harold, pulling him close, and he cups Harold's belly in both hands. "It's very cute. Kind of sexy, actually." Harold harrumphs, and John nuzzles behind his ear with his nose. "I like it."

Harold takes the leash, wordlessly granting John permission to touch more, and John runs his hands over Harold's aching belly. It feels incredible, the slow, reverent, exploring slide of palms over the tight curve. For a moment, the mild pain seems to stop, and the dreadful churning seems to still, as John adds, "And I like you."

Harold is helpless to keep from smiling. "I like you, too."

The elevator stops, and the doors open with a ding. Neither of them moves to leave it.

The strokes become a careful massage, John seeming to know exactly how much pressure is needed to soothe and relieve. _The glamorous life of an international spy_, Harold thinks, full of gut wounds and food poisoning and all sorts of other maladies that would give John too much experience with pain in his stomach. It breaks Harold's heart, imagining John suffering from even this inconvenient little sickness of his. Knowing he has experienced far worse...

And yet here he is, using that experience to comfort, to seek and find the worst of the ache in Harold's belly and rub it away, leaving warmth and a feeling of _care_ in the wake of his strong, competent fingers. Chest overflowing with gratitude, Harold thanks John the best way he knows how—by giving in. He leans back against him, letting John's strength hold his weakened body up, letting his aching belly fill John's hands fully.

Letting John care for him.

"You're very good at this," Harold says, and John lets out a small, pleased sound. "I am...immeasurably grateful to have you."

"I'm grateful to have you, too." John kisses him below the ear. Harold's belly gurgles again, and the warm breath of John's chuckle brushes Harold's skin. "And you." John pats Harold's belly, then goes back to massaging it.

"I think my abdomen was expressing its gratitude just now." Harold pauses. "I can't imagine that it's complaining about your attempt to appease it. It feels heavenly."

"Yeah, well, I'm not too happy about what it's doing to you right now." John sounds amused again, but his voice quickly turns serious as he says, "So, once I get you settled in, your guts and I are gonna have a little chat. They don't get to treat you like this."

"Have you stopped to consider that perhaps I have been mistreating my innards, rather than the other way around?"

"No."

Harold huffs. "John, you give me entirely too much credit sometimes."

With a soft chuckle, John kisses the back of his head. "Usually you deserve it."

Harold's stomach keeps him from responding. Clenching his mouth shut, he breathes through another wave of intense nausea, until it dies back down to profound queasiness. When it settles, he says, "Oh," low and drawn-out. "Oh, I think I'm ready to go get that medication now."

"Okay." John untangles himself from around Harold, not letting go fully, and gently urges him forward. "Let's go get you taken care of."

_I already am_, Harold thinks, and they head out of the elevator and the Library together.


End file.
